


Pick-Me-Up

by audreycritter



Series: Cor Et Cerebrum [28]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Prompt Reply, falling off a ledge without major injury, questionable medical research for the sake of whump and comfort, sick!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 05:57:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19267189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Damian falls in the cave while already ill and is just having a generally terrible day.





	Pick-Me-Up

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt a while ago and then I forgot to crosspost to AO3 because that's a problem I have now, apparently?

The distant murmur of voices roused Damian from a disordered, aching sleep. He blinked at the world around him: deep shadows and stone walls. He stirred and sat up.

Sitting up was a mistake. Bile rose in his throat, stinging his tongue. For a moment, the list of what  _didn’t_  hurt was shorter.

Above him, someone laughed.

Pain resolved into distinct, throbbing points. His chest, his left leg, his head. The first attempt at calling out was a mere rasp over his dry lips. He staggered to his feet and tried again.

“Richard?”

Damian limped to the stone and leaned, pressing his hot skin against the rock.

“Damian?”

The voices above him stopped. The shadows deepened and he craned his neck, squinting against the burst of light that fragmented his vision. The silhouette of a head peering down was a dim shape against the Cave beyond.

“I…” Damian said. Fell. He thought he fell? He couldn’t force the admission out.

“Hold on, Little D. Dev, toss me that grapple.”

Damian let the stone hold more of his weight. He blinked and Richard was there, holding a grapple line. Strong hands were on his cheeks a blink later, long and slender fingers prodding gently around his skull and neck.

“I fuh…fell…” Damian stuttered, his head feeling like a rattled box of marble chess pieces.

“Can you hold on?” Dick asked, crouching enough to guide Damian’s arm around his neck.

“You…you imbecile,” Damian’s teeth chattered. “Of course I can hold on.”

He almost couldn’t. The lightning-quick motion upward flipped his stomach and he nearly puked in the air. Richard’s grip tightened around him.

Again, Damian kept his rebellious stomach at bay. Richard climbed over the safety railing holding him perched on his hip like a small child. Damian’s face flushed hot when he saw the railing— the railing he’d sat on, sulking, after beating a sandbag while fevered. He didn’t remember dozing off, but he remembered the sickening lurch when his body had dropped him backwards.

Father had  _left_  him, he hadn’t even listened when Damian insisted he’d probably be fine, fever vanished, by the time their flight landed in Hong Kong.

“What have I said about trying to fly?” A penlight in Dev’s hand speared his aching eyes. The doctor was leaning over next to Damian, where Richard had set him on the gurney.

“T…t…tere…” Damian couldn’t sit upright and Dev was  _mocking_  him?

“Oi, mate, don’t finish that in front of your brother. He still thinks you’re an innocent babe.”

Richard made a choked noise of muffled laughter and Damian attempted to glare at him, but to his utter horror his eyes filled with tears.

Of course Richard noticed. A second later he was sitting next to Damian, arm around him, and Damian couldn’t muster the anger to keep himself from leaning into that warmth.

“Dames,” Dev said, frowning now. His teasing had vanished, too, and Damian’s muddled brain tried to file this information away. “Just how rough are you feeling, mate? Walk me through every bloody ache.”

“Crying…elicits…a favorable response.” Damian hadn’t meant to say that aloud. His ears burned.

“You little plonker,” Dev muttered.

“Damian,” Richard said. “Answer the question.”

It was a tone prompting a report, so Damian gave it: “Head, chest, lower left leg. Fever. He left me.”

“I know,” Richard said. “He called and asked me to come stay with you. If it makes you feel better, he sounded miserable.”

“Good,” Damian said, shivering. Tears welled up in his eyes again. Maybe he could blame it on…

“Right then. I suspected concussion,” Dev said. “Chest bloody worries me. We’ll do a full scan.”

Being poked and prodded was less miserable in Richard’s arms. He was scooped up onto Richard’s lap and couldn’t find it in him to protest more than, “I’m  _thirteen_.”

“Wow, that’s so old,” Richard replied with infuriating cheer. “I’m thirty! You’ll catch up soon!”

“Tt,” Damian hissed, slumping.

The official diagnosis was that he was lucky. He forced down some medication and water while Richard was on the phone.

“Mild pneumonia, which is probably what caused his fever earlier. Minor concussion, sprained ankle. He must have been slack when he landed. No, B, he’s…he’s right here. I don’t think you need to…”

“If he comes back because of me,” Damian ground out, “I will puncture the Jaguar’s tires with my katana.”

Father not taking him was one insult. To return to him and let Damian bear the responsibility for interrupting an important investigation would be another.

“You heard that? He’s okay for now. I’ll call you if anything changes. Yes, B, I promise.”

Richard pocketed the phone and faced Damian.

“Upstairs?”

“Am I grounded?” Damian demanded. “He’s angry, isn’t he?”

“Grou–” Richard started. “Angry? Damian, he’s  _worried_. You aren’t in trouble for having an accident while sick. Got it?”

“Yes,” Damian said sullenly, though relief flooded him. He coughed and everything hurt. He wanted to lie down.

“Keep him off his feet for at least today,” Dev said. “I’ll do another oxygen test in two hours.”

Richard twisted and crouched, and motioned. “C’mon, Lil D.”

“I’m not little,” Damian griped, but he slid off the table onto Richard’s back all the same. He let his head droop against the slender, hard shoulder while Richard piggy-backed him upstairs and to his own room. The neatly-made bed was turned down and Damian tucked in before he could protest.

“Richard,” Damian said, his request dying on his tongue. It was a childish thing to ask.

Warm fingers brushed his sweeping, sweat-stiff hair back from his forehead.

“Right here, bud. Think you can manage some Cheese Viking?”

“Tt,” Damian said, unsure. “Perhaps.”

“Sit tight,” Richard said, pressing a kiss to Damian’s forehead. Damian grumbled and Richard kissed his head again, more sloppily and noisily. “Love you, brat.”

“Disgusting,” Damian said, scrubbing at his forehead. His mouth quirked into a smile anyway.

Richard rummaged in Damian’s desk and came back and climbed in bed next to him, holding the Nintendo 3DS. Damian scooted over and curled up against his brother, watching the screen while Richard started a speed trial. His eyes grew heavy, Richard’s breath stirring his hair with every exhale.

“Richard? S’not disgusting. Love you, too.”

“I know, kiddo,” Richard said, tipping his cheek against Damian’s head. “Snot  _is_  disgusting. Get better and we’ll eat B’s ice cream while he’s gone.”

“You know what I meant, idiot.” A pause. “On occasion, you make acceptable plans.”

“Thanks,” Richard said wryly. “Sleep. I want some of that mocha chip.”

Damian burrowed more tightly against Richard, pretending that it was to better see the health bar on the screen, and drifted to sleep.


End file.
